


The Broken Pieces of Me

by Bamboozlepig



Category: Adam-12
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Confessional, Drama, F/M, Gen, darker themes, first person POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-05 10:10:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4175904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bamboozlepig/pseuds/Bamboozlepig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You thought you knew me, didn't you, Jim? You used to brag about how you knew your sweet little wifey, inside and out. But you didn't really know me, did you? Because if you had, you'd have known I was already broken when you met me. [Jean Reed POV] *Not advised for those looking for the perfect Jean/Jim marriage.*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Adam-12 is the property of Universal/MarkVII and no copyright infringement is intended with the publication of this piece. ALL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT PERMISSION. *This story may contain graphic language or other situations readers might find potentially upsetting, therefore reader discretion is advised.* For plot purposes, intentional liberties may be taken with the depiction of any real life protocols and creative license taken with the portrayals of canon elements, including characters.
> 
> AUTHOR'S NOTE: I had the idea for this story several months ago and sketched quite a bit of it out, but then set it aside because it didn't seem to want to come together for me. Then just the other day, I was in the process of cutting up some timothy hay for my guinea pig, and the line "I was broken when you met me" popped into my mind and I knew right away what story it belonged to. Since then, I've been working non-stop on it and it's what I'd consider 95% finished...I hold six completed chapters in my hands and I also have the scenes down for the remaining chapters, including the end, so all I need to do is a little more fleshing out of the later bits and get them knitted into full chapters, then that's it, it's done. (And for those following the Brice story over on the Emergency! fandom, yes, I am still working on that one as well.)
> 
> A couple of notes on this story: If you are a fan of Jean Reed or like the idea of the Reeds' having a perfect marriage, then you will probably not find this story to your tastes because this is a fairly dark take on both Jean and Jim, presenting both them and their marriage as being far from perfect. The fic is told in Jean's voice so naturally her view of Jim and their relationship together is not going to be all sunshine and roses, neither is her view of herself. And while the story details aren't as graphic as I normally go in order to maintain the T rating, some of the subject matter is still unsettling and reader discretion is strongly advised. The narrative is what I'd call 'stream of confession'...it's not technically stream of consciousness and overall it does follow a fairly linear pattern, but there are parts where the narrative is intentionally bumpy in order to capture the confessional nature of the fic. In the version of this story on ffnet, I've set the conversations between Jean and the other characters aside in italics, but since this site likes to eat my formatting, I've set it aside in quotation marks. This fic will also tie in with a couple of my other stories, but I won't reveal what stories those are until I get closer to the end of this one. As always, feedback is welcomed and thank you for taking the time out to read this!

I'm not taking all the blame for this, Jim.

Oh no, you bear a fair share of blame as well. You wanted the perfect life with the perfect wife but it never occurred to you that there's no such thing as perfect people, we're all flawed, we're all fucked up, we're all fallible with feet of clay that can weigh us down, can sink us under those expectations of who we really are versus who we're supposed to be.

Even you.

And especially me.

Remember how you used to boast to our friends that you knew your sweet little wifey like you knew the back of your own hand? And everyone, including me, would laugh at how clever you were, how knowledgeable you were about what made Jean Louise Reed tick.

You claimed to know me, inside and out—all my hopes and dreams, all my aspirations, frustrations, irritations, all my fears, all my failures. You bragged that you didn't have to know my secrets because there were never any secrets between us, like the perfect husband and wife, we shared everything with one another. You said you knew what I wanted and didn't want because they were the same things you wanted and didn't want, our lives so neatly dovetailed that sometimes you couldn't discern where one ended and the other began.

But as it turns out, you never really knew me at all, did you?

And maybe, after all of this, you will never want to know me again, you'll want to deny my existence and erase me from your life like I was a mistake you once made.

(Of course, perfect people never make mistakes, do they, Jim?)

And maybe, in the end, we really were a mistake, Jim, maybe we were never meant to be, did you ever think of that?

Because do you know what the biggest thing is that you've never known about me?

I was already broken when you met me.

************

Did I ever tell you about kindly old Mr. Chapman who lived next door to me when I was a child? Oh, I know you've heard my parents talk about what wonderful neighbors he and his wife were—they never had any kids of their own, so they "adopted" the neighborhood kids instead and lavished love and attention on them. Mrs. Chapman always had fresh baked chocolate chip cookies or cupcakes loaded with icing to offer us, along with fresh squeezed lemonade or Kool-Aid. Whenever the ice cream man came around, Mr. Chapman made sure to buy all of us our favorite ice cream, the change clinking in his pockets matching the jingle-jangle of the bells on the ice cream truck. Mr. Chapman built a playground set in his backyard for us to play on, complete with swings and a slide and a teeter-totter, and sometimes he'd hitch this little wagon he'd built to the back of his little garden tractor and take us for rides around the block.

And every spring they hosted an Easter egg hunt for us and he played the Easter bunny; every Christmas they decorated their yard to the hilt and he played Santa Claus at the party they'd host, handing out little gifts to all of us; every Halloween they put on costumes and had a "haunted house" for us to go through; every summer they hosted the neighborhood block party and Fourth of July barbecue. One year he even rented a sweet little pony so that we could all have pony rides and another year he brought in a little petting zoo with goats and chickens and ducks and little woolly lambs, and another year he rented a dunk tank and we had a blast paying a penny to dunk the adults.

Yes, Mr. Chapman was a nice old guy, always cheerful and kind and grabbing at you to stick his hands down your pants or feel at your chest the minute he had you alone.

I can still feel him, still hear him, still smell him, Jim, even after all these years—swooping down on me with an energetic laugh and a cloud of Brut cologne, and if I tried to run, he'd catch me and scoop me up in his arms, his hands "accidentally" slipping under my dress to brush against my panties before he'd set me back down and give me a hug, his hands "inadvertently" bumping against the bodice of my dress as he pressed me back against that odd bulge in his pants. "Give me a kiss or I won't let you go," he'd say, grabbing my chin and forcing my lips to his. I'd give him a quick peck and then squirm away from him while he laughed and called me a wild little wiggle-worm.

Of course, what he did when he was at no risk of being caught by someone else is even worse—I will not go into that bit, Jim, not because I don't think you can't handle it but because all it will do is open that scar that has taken me years to sew shut. And I'm not ready to face that part, not yet.

I tried hard to avoid him because instinctively I knew what he was doing was wrong, but in that small of a neighborhood, it was difficult—he did a good job of "hiding" behind the façade of the friendly neighbor and he always phrased what he was doing behind nice, innocent terms like "playing" or "tickling" or "hugging and kissing". "Surely it's okay for me to hug you and kiss you, isn't it? Your mommy and daddy hug and kiss you, why can't I? Don't you like to be tickled, little princess, don't you like to play? Don't you feel good when I do that to you? It sure feels good what you do to me, little princess, look how happy you make me."

And I'd beg him to stop, to please let me go, but he'd only hold me tighter, the stink of his cologne filling my nose like acid, his bulbous green eyes glowing with delight, his fleshy lips smacking together in pleasure as his fingers went a-wandering, pinching and squeezing, prodding and poking like curious little mice as he told me to be quiet…oh God, he made me hurt, Jim, he made me cry, he made me feel like I was always dirty right down to my young soul, and he always told me that what we did together was our little secret because mommies and daddies wouldn't understand our "fun"—and besides, if I did tell my parents, I would be the one to get into trouble because I was a bad girl for making him do what he did to me.

(And now you know there's a reason why I leave the room when my parents start talking about what a great neighbor he was and there's a reason why I hate the smell of Brut cologne and there's a reason why I told you never to call me your little princess and there's a reason why I watch any adult who interacts with our son like a hawk, searching for signs of overfamiliarity or excess affection or unusual interest. I've even watched you with Jimmy—I've watched Pete, too—even though I know neither of you would ever do anything to hurt him. It's just that I realize monsters like Mr. Chapman can wear all sorts of disguises in order to have contact with children, like being the P.E. teacher at the elementary school or the youth swimming instructor at the Y.M.C.A. or the Boy Scout leader or even the friendly man right next door.)

And I know what you will ask— Did you tell your parents or any other adult? Did you say anything to his wife? Did you tell them he was touching you; did you ask any of the other kids or your two sisters if he did the same things to them?

No, I never told my parents, at least not at the time the abuse was happening…I was too scared because I thought he was right, I'd get in trouble for being such a bad little girl who made such a nice man like Mr. Chapman do naughty things to me. Years later when Mama was talking about a molestation case in the papers, I mentioned how Mr. Chapman used to touch me "down there" and "up here", and Mama blew me off with an airy wave of her hand, telling me oh no, he couldn't have done that, he was such a nice man. I realized it was useless to go any further and tell her the truth about Mr. Chapman, for she wouldn't have believed me and neither would Daddy, they were far too caught up in the idea that Mr. Chapman was the saint of the neighborhood.

And it was futile to ask Mrs. Chapman if she knew what her husband was doing, for she'd walked in on him doing things to me several times, but she feigned a blind indifference, intentionally oblivious to what she witnessed as she turned around and backed out of the room without a single word. She didn't say stop!, she didn't ask him why the hell my underwear was down around my ankles and his hand was up my dress, she didn't question why I was crying...she didn't bat an eye as she took in the scene and then turned her back on it, a queer little smile on her face as she left, offering me a cookie afterwards to calm my tears, acting like it never happened.

And when I asked Shirley Dillard once if Mr. Chapman ever played funny with her, she gave me a strange look and wanted to know why I'd asked such a "mean" question about such a nice old man, so I never asked any of the other kids, including my sisters, if he did the same things to them that he did to me because I didn't want them to ostracize me for being "mean" or "weird" in regards to Mr. and Mrs. Chapman.

Of course, I knew I couldn't tell anyone about what he was doing to me, so like a lot of kids who don't know how to cope with trauma like that, I shoved it deep down inside of and told myself that if I didn't acknowledge it, it meant that it really never happened.

The more I told myself that, the easier it became to believe it.

Of course, you know this next part, Jim, for my parents still speak of what a great tragedy it was...I was ten years old when Mrs. Chapman's nephew, fresh out of prison for burglary and theft, stopped by their house late one hot August night and proceeded to stab them both to death when they refused to give him money, then he set their house on fire to cover up the crime and wound up blowing himself up as well when the gasoline fumes hit the pilot light to the water heater. Mama always tells how the neighborhood was awash with flames as bright as day, the smoke a black specter rising into the night sky, the wail of sirens seeming to mourn the loss of two good people. Daddy always tells how the neighborhood was rocked to the core, shocked that such vicious violence would hit such a quiet area, the burnt-out shell of that house a gaping wound that would never be healed, not even when they tore the remaining structure down and let the lot go to scrub brush and stubby grass and thick weeds.

But what you didn't know, Jim, was the night Mr. and Mrs. Chapman were brutally murdered, I'd heard it go down—my bedroom window was open and I heard them arguing with the nephew and I heard him threatening them. I heard Mrs. Chapman beg, Oh, please don't!, and Mr. Chapman cry out, Stop, stop, oh God, please stop!, their voices sounding as panicked as mine did when I begged the same thing of him. (Stop! Stop! You're hurting me, please let me go, please let me go!) I knew something bad was happening over there and I should've gotten up and woke my parents up to tell them so they could call the police. But I didn't, I just lay there and listened, my stomach churning and my mouth as dry as cotton, listening until there was only silence; at least until the house exploded and knocked me out of my bed onto the floor, bits of debris slamming into the window and raining down on the roof over my head.

And as I stood there with my parents and sisters on our front lawn and watched their house blazing alive with flickering tongues of fire, all I could think was "I hope you both burn in hell, you sick evil bastards." The firefighters couldn't even make an attempt to get into the house to save anyone—not that it would've mattered because the Chapmans were already dead and the nephew was nothing more than a melted blob near the front door. When the coroner's team came in later on that day to remove the bodies from the remains of the house, I wanted to go right up to those molten lumps that lay beneath those pristine white sheets and I wanted to spit on them, I wanted to yank them off of the cots and stomp on them until they broke into piles of ash and bone, feeling them crumble to bits beneath my feet.

I fell into a funk after their deaths—Mama said it was because I had an overly sensitive nature and Daddy said it was because I'd finally realized true evil existed in the world. But I knew true evil existed in the world back when I was five and six and seven and eight and nine, back when kindly Mr. Chapman was sticking his hands down my panties and his fingers in places they didn't belong, when he was grabbing at my budding breasts to see how fast they were growing, when he was slobbering kisses across my unwilling lips and forcing me to grab at his bulge so I could feel how "happy" he was to see me.

No, my funk was because for years I had prayed for God to wreak some sort of vengeance against Mr. and Mrs. Chapman and now that He finally had, it didn't leave me feeling victorious or triumphant, it just left me feeling…

Guilty.

Like I'd been the one to pull that butcher knife from the wooden block in their cozy green kitchen and stab them with it, puncturing their pale bodies over and over again before slicing their throats, the walls and ceiling and floors painted with their blood until the walls and ceiling and floors became painted with flames that burned and licked up every drop of their evil souls.

And I was just as evil, for I'd wanted them dead and now they were, and there was no taking that wish back once it had come true.

I couldn't sleep for the nightmares, dreaming of watching the bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Chapman char and twist like grotesque dancers in those flames, their hands reaching for me to pull me into their hell with them, their voices crying and begging me to help them, just as I cried and begged Mr. Chapman to stop touching me. Every time I looked out my window and remembered what I'd heard that night, my stomach twisted into knots. Every time I stepped out into my yard and saw that blackened shell of their funeral pyre, I broke out into a cold sweat. Every time one of the kids dared me to slip under the orange safety fence and go up on the steps and touch the plywood that covered the blown-out door, I chickened out, for that smolder of smoke still drifted about like ghosts and I was afraid one of them was Mr. Chapman, just waiting to grab me when I set foot on his property—only instead of trying to fondle me, he'd tell me what a bad little girl I was for letting him die.

Of course, Mama and Daddy noticed something was wrong with me, but because psychological counseling in children was still relatively unheard of, it never occurred to them to put me in therapy. No, Mama thought maybe the problem was I had not had a chance to fully say goodbye to the Chapmans when we attended their funeral, so she took me one afternoon to their gravesite. She walked me to it and gave me a hug—"you go on ahead, Sweetie, and let Mr. and Mrs. Chapman know how much you loved them and how much you miss them and how sorry you are that they're gone, and I'll go wait at the car until you're ready to go. Take all the time you need, honey, get it all out of your system." She then left me there; the black granite headstone gleaming in the sunlight, the lines in the browned sod over the graves still noticeable, for it was in the slow process of knitting back to the earth. A handful of dried scraggly flowers still graced the grave, the circlets drooping and the banners starting to fade from the sun, the petals and stems dried to beige and bled of all color, as if it had washed away from all the tears people cried for their loss.

My heart beat hard as I knelt in the grass next to the graves, the dried blades rough against my bare knees, my fingers digging in the small clumps of dirt surrounding the squares of sod. I stared at the names and dates etched like precise scars in the dark stone and I put a hand out for a moment to touch it, the granite warm and solid beneath my palm. I waited for the words to come, the slow boil of them warbling their way up my chest to stick in my throat. "I"—I began, but stopped, for the words I knew I was supposed to say were the wrong ones…how could I tell Mr. and Mrs. Chapman that I loved them and missed them when I really felt none of those things? How could I tell them I was sorry they died when I truly wasn't sorry…guilty for wishing it, sure, but sorry they were gone? No.

Then I knew what I wanted to do, how I wanted to say goodbye to Mr. and Mrs. Chapman. Glancing across the brown span of the graveyard for Mama, I saw her standing by the car, chatting with a couple of ladies in hats and gloves, so she wasn't paying any attention to me. I crawled across the grass to squat on my heels over Mr. Chapman's grave—I was told never to walk on graves for it was a disrespect for the dead who lay beneath your feet, but I figured just this once the dead beneath my feet deserved my disrespect. Turning my back to Mama and the ladies, I fluffed my blue plaid dress out so it spread around me, the starched crinolines beneath it crinkling softly as they rustled against the grass. Spreading my feet so I was safely braced, I tucked my hands in front of me so from the back it looked like I was praying or maybe dabbling at the sod, but what I really did was sneak a hand beneath my dress and tug at the cotton crotch of my panties, carefully pulling them aside with my fingers.

And then I pissed on Mr. Chapman's grave.

"Look at this, you nasty old sonofabitch," I muttered as the warm liquid streamed from me, hissing against the grass as the words fell from my lips like acid. You always wanted to see this, you always wanted to feel this, you always wanted to stick your fingers up this, so look at it now as it's pissing on you, you filthy old bastard, what do you think of that, does it make you happy to see me, is your ghostly old pecker rising in your dead old bones at the sight of this?"

And goddamnit, Jim, it felt good to squat there in that cemetery, the gravestones blooming around me like gruesome flowers as I watered Mr. Chapman's grave with my own pee. It was my revenge against that filthy fucking pervert…sure, it was small, but it felt good, like a bit of a victory over all the nasty shit he did to me.

When I finished pissing, I let the cotton crotch of my panties slide back into place, darting a look over my shoulder to make sure Mama was still occupied by the other two ladies, then I turned back to the headstone. "I always hated the two of you and I'm not sorry you died, I think you both got what you deserved," I hissed softly. "And I'm done feeling guilty for not doing anything when I heard you two begging for help that night you were killed because neither of you ever felt guilty for what you did to me. I'm done feeling guilty for wishing you were dead. And I hope you both rot in hell for all eternity—I hope the Devil does to you what you did to me, Mr. Chapman, only I hope he uses his pitchfork instead of his fingers. I hope the Devil turns his back on your cries of agony, Mrs. Chapman, his ears deaf as you plead for help."

Then I spit on both their graves, the saliva from my mouth falling in warm, white blobs against the brown of the grass. I would've danced on the graves as well, but Mama was there and would've yelled at me for being so disrespectful, so I just stood up and walked away.

"Did you say your goodbyes, Darling?" Mama asked when I came back to the car. "Were you able to tell Mr. and Mrs. Chapman how much you loved them and miss them?"

"I sure did, Mama, I watered their graves with my tears and I got it all out of my system," I replied, pretending to wipe tears from my eyes. And if she wondered about the funny little smile on my face, she never asked about it.

And Jim, have you ever noticed that little shard of glass that I keep in my jewelry box? Have you ever asked yourself why I keep it, what it is a keepsake memento of? Have you ever wondered about that little white scar that lies across my palm?

(Or maybe you haven't ever wondered because scars don't interest you unless they're your own and you don't believe in keepsakes because tangible things only slow you down, bind you to them with their uselessness.)

But that glass shard is important to me because that same day Mama took me to the graveyard, I forced myself to slip through the gap in the safety fence and march into the Chapmans' yard, my feet hushing like whispers across that winter-dry grass. I walked up those front steps and touched the piece of plywood that covered the blown-out door, the wood warm and splintery beneath my fingertips, the smell of smoke still lingering on the air. I felt nothing. No fear, no sickness, nothing.

Another small victory for me.

Climbing off the steps, I went around to the back of the house—here was where the structure was the most badly damaged from the explosion and fire, the frame sagging and the maroon siding looking like Dali-esque dribbles down the sides, the roof hanging low like melting grey ice. Most of the debris that had been blown into the backyard from the force of the explosion had been picked up and huge sheets of plywood hung across the gaping maw of where the kitchen and bathroom had once been. But bits of burned wood and busted glass crunched beneath my feet as I walked up to what had been the sliding glass doors of their patio, peering through a small gap between the plywood and the frame. It was dim inside, the smell of smoke thicker here, along with the smell of mold and mildew, of wet rotting things. I could see the blackened humps of the Chapmans' kitchen table and chairs lurking like ghosts within and in my mind's eye, I put the dead where I thought they'd lain, according to the news reports—Mrs. Chapman's body was found in the hallway by the bedroom she'd long quit sharing with her husband; Mr. Chapman was found in the kitchen, crumpled in front of the refrigerator; the murderous nephew was found not far from inside the door, having tried to outrun the fireball before it enveloped him.

I waited for my stomach to twist into knots like it usually did when I started thinking about the crime, but my stomach stayed put.

I stepped back, bits of glass crunching beneath the soles of my saddle oxfords, and I bent down to pick up a shard that lay on the cement, the feel of it warm from the sun as I turned it around and around in my fingers, studying it as it winked in the light. It had a silvered back and I recognized it as probably coming from the bathroom—one of the rooms Mr. Chapman would closet me in with him, the black and gold-flecked wallpaper and bright red fixtures apt for that awful hell. The edges of the shard were blackened with soot from where smoke had licked at it before the flames shattered it and shot it out the nearby window, the surface of it chipped and scarred from being trodden upon by the firefighters and policemen and other important people who'd been in and out of that house since the murders.

I held it up for a moment and looked at the little sliver of myself that reflected back to me—a bit of cold brown iris, a corner of a smirking mouth, a fluff of strawberry-blonde hair. Mirror, mirror, on the wall, what awful things you witnessed when you were still alive, I thought. You saw what he did to me, you saw me begging and crying, you saw the sickness in his soul and there was nothing you could do about it, was there?

I put it in my mouth for a moment, the taste of it ashy and bitter on my tongue-communion from my own private hell.

Then I spit it back into my hand and closed my fingers around it and felt it cut into my palm, the sear of it slicing across my skin, the blood hot as it welled up into bright little drops of crimson. Kneeling down, I pressed on the cut and watched a few drops of blood dribble from my palm onto the sun washed cement, then I smeared those drops with my fingertips, mixing them with the ash and soot and bits of burnt debris, leaving behind those drops of my former innocence in the place where that innocence had been so brutally stolen from me.

And I keep that bit of glass in my jewelry box like it's some sort of precious gem because it's a shard of me—a shard from the first time I was ever broken…

And couldn't really be fixed.


	2. The Broken Pieces of Me Part 2

One of the things you have complained to our marriage counselor about is that you don't understand why I have struggled trying to figure out my identity because you've never had that problem, have you, Jim? You've always been Jim Reed, the guy whose life has been carefully planned out, carefully organized, with everything mapped out into neat little sections of "what to do" and timelines of "when to do it".

But if you could look inside me, you'd see my roadmap of life is a jumbled mess of highways under construction and dead-end streets—I'm still trying to figure out who I am and what I'm supposed to be…

Because I wasn't happy being Jean Conway and I haven't been happy being Jean Reed, wife to Jim, mother to Jimmy.

The therapist has told me that a lot of it stems from the abuse I suffered at the hands of Mr. Chapman, for such trauma can create inner conflicts and sense of poor self-worth, but I also think it comes from being a middle child who was sandwiched between a brainy older sister and a piously perfect younger sister, bearing the brunt of my parents' indifference as they lavished praise on Gwennie's astonishing mathematical abilities or Mary's slavish devotedness to achieving metaphorical sainthood before she was eighteen. I knew I was not exciting, I was not interesting, I was just plain old tapwater boring Jeannie Conway, the little red-haired girl with freckles on her nose and a dislike for big ugly bugs like cicadas.

So I decided to try on my sisters' personalities, slipping into their skins to see if they fit me, see if I could find what it was I was meant to do with my life, if I could find my proper place in the world. I gathered mathematical equations and scientific experiments around me, trying to be brainy like Gwennie, but algebra and geometry bored me to tears and chemistry made my eyes burn and my hands stink and gave me a headache. Then I adorned myself with Mary's mantle of pious perfection, but being a saint chafed at me, for it required being selfless and giving my allowance to the UNICEF drives instead of spending it on the latest Elvis record or a new bottle of nail polish or some pretty hair ribbons at the five-and-dime.

I bounced from ballet to tap lessons, from piano lessons to singing lessons, from a poetry class to a pottery class, from an acting class to a modeling class to a photography class. Every time I changed my mind and jumped into something new, Mama accused me of being flighty, Daddy accused me of being scatterbrained, Mary accused me of needing to be the center of attention, and Gwennie accused me of deliberately sabotaging my efforts so I'd never be able to find my true happiness.

I was lonely being myself and I was lonely being someone else.

So before my freshman year of high school started, I decided a total makeover was in order, stripping away the plain-Jane cocoon of boring little Jeannie Conway and becoming the beautiful butterfly Jeanne, a cultured misspelling of my given name that allowed my tongue to roll it out in a luscious slur, lulling it upon the ears like the French pronunciation, exotic and exciting and definitely NOT the bland old Jean I was born with.

I also tried out for cheerleading that year with Ruthie Bannister and found that I loved it, relishing it when all eyes were on us during half-time, our skirts flying and pom-poms fluttering and ponytailed hair flashing like bright victory pennants as we bounced and cartwheeled and danced through our choreographed routines, screaming out the school's war chant in shrilly gleeful synchronization, showing off for the crowds in front of us. And even more I loved the jealous looks we got from the plainer girls as they watched us fluttering around the school jocks like pretty little birds, wearing our cheerleading costumes to class on the days we had pep rallies, those bright blue and gold uniforms marking us as different, as something more special, more exotic and exciting than the ordinary students.

And Ruthie took me under her wing, showing me how to do my hair and makeup, how to dress demurely enough to get out of the house, but to turn those demure outfits into something more provocative by rolling the waistbands of my skirts up so that I could show off my legs, or unbuttoning the buttons of my blouses and sweaters just enough to let a little hint of creamy cleavage to peep out. I took cues from my literary heroine of Scarlett O'Hara, learning how to flirt and act coy and coquettish, giggling at whatever silly things the boys said, even if I didn't find them funny, figuring out how to use my beauty as a weapon against my loneliness, drawing the boys to me like moths to a flame, to use a tired old cliché.

After all, men are such fools for sloe eyes lined heavily in kohl, for long lashes that flutter fetchingly beneath layers of mascara, for full pouty lips that paint puckered kisses in fire engine red, for pert little breasts that are delicately outlined in pastel cashmeres and dainty laces, for long legs that flash tanned and tantalizing beneath short skirts, for pale skin that is a splash of wholesome milk against a blazing fire of auburn hair. Yes, men go nuts for all those lush curves that wind hither and yon, promising that just beneath that flirtatious, yet innocent attitude there lays a bad girl full of wantonness, full of freedom, full of unbridled desires—

And wasn't I already a bad girl to begin with? Hadn't Mr. Chapman told me as his hands pushed at my bodice or plucked at my panties that I was a naughty girl, a dirty little girl who liked to make nice men like him do dirty things to her?

So the way I saw it, I was only fulfilling what had to be my destiny in becoming Jeanne Conway—a little bit wild, a little bit bad, a little bit fast with the boys I dated.

Of course, not you because your family moved out of our school district in fifth grade, but I dated boys like Adam Gentry and Bobby Prentiss and Chuckie Thurman. We'd go roller-skating and out to dinner, we'd go to the movies and the beach and to the Santa Monica Pier. We'd go to the school dances and slow-dance very awkwardly, the boy pretending he wasn't trying to cop a feel of my ass while I was trying to pretend I didn't feel his hard-on pressing into my skirt. And those dates came with costs, the price paid in tongues that wormed like slugs into my mouth, in sweaty fingers that pawed at my shoulders and pried clumsily at my sweater buttons, in palms that skittered nervously beneath the cashmere to peck at the virginal white satin of my bra, in panting breaths and hands fumbling to climb underneath my skirt, fluttering hesitantly at the barrier of my cotton panties.

Once in a while I'd let my dates go a bit further and allow them to undo my blouse, their fingers scratching at my back as they struggled to unsnap my brassiere, the sudden reveal of my breasts like the release of floodgates as they nattered awkwardly at them, becoming giggly and red-faced as they squeezed at them and rubbed reverent palms over them as if they were manna from Heaven. And I knew how to cup my hands around the bulges in their pants, stroking them until they came over the simple sight and feel of a pair of tits.

Given what Mr. Chapman had done to me, you'd have thought I would've been utterly repulsed by being touched like that, but instead I enjoyed being the center of attention, enjoyed the different things they did to me—the tantalizing brush of their skin against mine, their lips whispering my name like it was some sort of prayer as they kissed and petted me.

But the biggest thing I loved was the power I held over them, knowing I could get them to do my bidding just as long as I let them fondle my breasts and stick their tongues in my mouth and their hands up my skirt; just as long as I wrapped delicate fingers around them and brought them to a sighing, glazed-eye climax in their chinos. It was better than the booze high from the after-game parties, that power of knowing that by offering little glimpses of skin, I could make any of my boyfriends do anything I wanted them to do, wrapping them around my little fingers just because I let them touch a nipple or slide a finger past the crotch of my panties.

(And it's a power I hold over you, Jim—you don't know how many times I have used sex to get you to do something, for you are far too blissful in the sleepy aftermath of it to realize how amazing it is that I'm "magically" in the mood at the same time I've needed you to do something for me. I've also withheld sex for the same reason—you're more likely to do what I want when you have endured an entire week of my chilly attitude and tight little smile as I tell you not tonight dear, I've got a headache. Perhaps it's shrewd, perhaps it's cold and calculating, but a woman must use what weapons she has at her disposal in order to maintain her power.)

Then that summer before our junior year, I ran into you at that basketball game at the Y that Ruthie dragged me to and I found out you and your family had moved back to our district and you'd be going to school with me again. It was pretty obvious you were still smitten with me, but I wasn't too sure about you, but you are nothing if not a persistent force of nature and you dazzled me—hell, who wouldn't be impressed with your good looks, Jim? You'd filled out, losing all those awkward angles and sharp planes, and even though you were still klutzy, your long legs and muscled arms seemed less like a gawky grasshopper flitting about and more like the star athlete you were. And oh my god, those eyes and those lips and those cheekbones…I couldn't help but be pleased with how nice we looked together—we made such a pretty pair, the beautiful little cheerleader paired up with the handsome jock. I was all fire with my auburn hair and lush curves and you were all ice with that dark hair and those chiseled cheekbones and bright blue eyes—yes, I was shallow, but so were you, Jim, so were you.

And I let you go pretty far pretty fast, those big hands of yours roaming my body and your lips whispering my name as you dropped kiss after kiss upon my bare skin—kisses that were slow and sweet, making me melt into a puddle of goo the minute your mouth fastened onto mine, leaving me aching and wanting for more. The two of us snuck away every chance we got, hiding in quiet corners and darkened booths, the car windows of your father's '55 Buick or my father's '61 Fairlane steaming over with the heated beads of our passion.

We were inseparable, you and I, we were cocooned into a single person known as "JimandJean", attached at the hip…and we loved it, it was a new identity for both of us, being one part of an attractive and popular couple. We thought we were really something because I proudly wore your letterman jacket on my back and your class ring on a chain on my neck, and you draped a protective arm around me every time we were together, marking me as yours. And we played at mapping our lives together out—you were going to get your accounting degree and I was going to get my teaching degree, and we were going to have a boy and a girl; the boy would be named James Aloysius Reed, Junior (even though I hated your middle name), and the girl would be named Madeline Jeanne, and we'd live not far from our parents in a little white house with the little white picket fence, and we'd be happy forever and ever.

We're perfect together, you'd tell me. You're the perfect girl for me and I'm the perfect boy for you.

And I believed you because I thought you were right—I wanted so much to think there we could have a happy ending together, just like in the fairytales.

But your eye was soon caught by newcomer M'lissy Cooper and her honeyed suth'ren accent and shimmering gold curtain of blonde hair that hung way past her tiny waist, those gorgeous legs of hers seemingly going on forever and those big old double-D tits sticking out like twin Mt. Everests from beneath her tight little blouses. She thrust herself into our group, flittering and twittering and hanging on you, her cat-green eyes blinking languorously at you as she laughed at the same silly jokes you told—jokes that I was beginning to find tiresome, mostly because you simply have no talent for telling them. You'd goggle at her tinkly little laugh and her hillbilly-hick reply of oh, land's sakes, that's so funny, Jimmy!, your mouth dropping open at how her double-D's bobbled unrestrained from beneath her sweater—apparently General Sherman burned bras in addition to the city of Atlanta on his march to the sea during the Civil War.

And while you liked knowing I was jealous of M'lissy, soon you began eyeing me critically, stacking me up against her glorious charms and finding me lacking, so you decided that we, the perfect JimandJean, were getting a little too serious and so we broke up, with me giving you back your letterman's jacket and class ring, both of which showed up on M'lissy's back and neck within a day of our split.

I only allowed myself to cry over you for one night, lying on my bed and bawling until my face was puffy and my eyes were red and my nose ran like a stock-car at the Daytona 500. I wept until my ribs ached from all the sobbing and Mary and Mama sat worriedly on my bed, patting my back and telling me about the other fish in the sea, and Gwen called twice that night long distance from her college in Colorado to check on me, while Daddy groused and paced and threatened to find you and shoot your balls off with his .12 gauge shotgun.

But I only mourned you for that one night. You may have broken my heart, but like Scarlett O'Hara, I decided fiddle-dee-dee, tomorrow was another day and I would get my revenge against you by dating all the boys you'd been jealous over. I made sure you saw me and my beau-of-the-minute in the same places you took that fake little blonde bitch—you saw me at the movies, giggling and necking with Jack Trudeau; you saw me at Dino's Dogs, shrieking with laughter as Chuckie Thurman tickled me in our booth; you saw me at the beach with Eddie Richards, my eyes closed in pleasure as I let him slather baby oil and iodine on my back; you saw me slow-dancing with Harry Falconer at the Half-Time, our bodies pressed tight together as we swayed to "In the Still of the Night" by the Five Satins.

(And it pissed you off, didn't it, seeing me with other boys like that? Yes, I know it did, for every time you saw me flirting or touching or petting with another boy, your face turned red and your jaw set in an angry line, and you grabbed that little honeysuckle rose of yours like she was a goddamned lifeline, her double-Ds the life raft that would save you from drowning in that sea of your own making.)

Then I'd heard from the other girls that M'lissy let you go all the way with her and even though we weren't together, the idea of you fucking that fake little blonde bitch made me want to puke. I didn't want to think of your hands roaming her body like your hands roamed mine, I didn't want to imagine your lips kissing her skin like you'd kissed me, I didn't want to think of you whispering her name as she wrapped those long legs around you and pulled you down into her drowning pool of green eyes and gold hair.

So I decided to let my beau-du-jour take my virginity in order to show you I didn't give a rat's ass who you were fucking. Bobby Prentiss was pretty surprised when we parked in his father's Oldsmobile at Lover's Leap and I told him I wanted to "do it". The thing I will remember the most about that night was the fear on his face…it probably reflected the same fear that was on my face as we crawled into the backseat of the car, his fingers shaking as he unbuttoned my blouse, his palms sweaty as they crawled up my thighs to push my skirt up and pull my underwear down. His kisses left me cold, for he tasted sour and unwilling, and he dropped his wallet twice as he looked for the condom he kept in there. It was all over in a minute, the two of us blinking and gasping in the darkness as our act of lovemaking turned into a perfunctory act of red-faced apology, all elbows and knees and pinched skin and chafing starbursts of pain that we'd both rather forget.

(When I found out at our last class reunion that Bobby was gay, I was relieved because I realized that the utter lack of passion and sheer embarrassment during the act wasn't all my fault.)

Then M'lissy dumped you for Adam Gentry and like a cad you came back to me in hopes of reuniting, acting as if you'd never defected so cavalierly to that fifth-rate Scarlett. I was aloof to your advances because I wasn't about to give in so easily, but I did miss your company—I missed how you made me feel important, how you touched me like I was fragile glass, not to mention how lovely we looked together, all blazing fire and cool ice. So after a week or so of your pestering me, I took you back and on our first date, we found ourselves necking and petting with an intense heat and desire that left us both throbbing and wanting, panting into one another's mouths as we rubbed and stroked over clothing and beneath it, going as far as we could go without fully "doing it".

You didn't know it, but I'd already decided to let you go all the way with me—I wanted to erase the image of you fucking M'lissy from my mind and replace it with a memory of you fucking me.

So that weekend my parents and sisters were in San Diego to visit my aunt and I had you over to "help" me with my geometry homework and you found yourself seduced by me instead?

It was all planned.

I will never forget the look on your face when you came into the house, expecting to find me hunched over the kitchen table with a pile of mathematical theories in front of me, and instead you found a hot-blooded little redhead with sex on her mind, my fingers latching onto your shirt and my mouth locking hard onto yours as I dragged you down the hallway to my bedroom, our teeth clashing together and our breath panting hot and furious between darting tongues and slick lips. I think you knew by then things were too far gone and there was no backing out because neither of us hesitated, our hands steady as we unzipped and undid the binds of our clothing, that navy blue sheath falling to the floor in a puddle of innocence that was soon joined by your jeans, the two of us aching for the feel of our bare skin frictioning against one another.

And you took it slow, planting gentle kisses in the hollow of my neck and along the lines of my collarbone, your mouth following the curves of my breasts and the dip of my stomach, the smooth silk of my inner thighs, your fingers caressing me so lightly, so sweetly, it made my mouth go dry. I moaned and whispered your name, my fingers carding through your hair, my eyes burning hot and my face flushed with fever as I let you slip into me, arching against you and crying out as I dug hard nails into your back, that ache that throbbed deep in both of us relieved as we expended our passion. As we lay together, panting and sweating on that princess pink bedspread, our limbs a-tangle like unstrung marionettes, you asked me to go steady with you again.

And I accepted.

I gloated as I wore your letterman's jacket once more on my back and your class ring around my neck, rubbing M'lissy Cooper's pallid little honeysuckle face in the fact that you and I were once more JimandJean and NO little piece of suth'ren white trash was going to come between us.

Ever.

Because we were in love and I thought being in love would fix me—I thought it would finally give me an identity, a purpose in life.

But it didn't.

And it hasn't.

And while you like to boast that you took wild-child Jeanne Conway and tamed her down to Jean Reed, a complacent little housewife and mother, what you don't know is the wildness is still within me, the restlessness still burning hot and fierce in my soul, and if my spirit doesn't find the freedom it craves—

I will surely die.


End file.
